“Yes, of course; out here.”  Pierre took him back to the parlor, where he dialed the Inn and inquired if a Mr. Ritter, from New Belfast, were registered there yet.

He was.  A moment later he was speaking to Ritter.

“Jeff, for Gawdsake, don’t come here,” Ritter advised.  “This place is six-deep with reporters; the bar sounds like the second act of The Front Page.  Tony Ashe and Steve Drake from the Dispatch and Express; Harry Bentz, from the Mercury; Joe Rawlings, the AP man from Louisburg; Christ only knows who all.  This damn thing’s going to turn into another Hall-Mills case!  Look, meet me at that beer joint, about two miles on the New Belfast side of Rosemont, on Route 19; the white-with-red-trimmings place with the big Pabst sign out in front.  I’ll try to get there without letting a couple of reporters hide in the luggage-trunk.”

“Okay; see you directly.”

Rand hung up, spent the next few minutes breaking away from Pierre and his mother, and went out to his car.  Trust Dave Ritter, he thought, to pick some place where malt beverages were sold, for a rendezvous.

Dave’s coupe was parked inconspicuously beside the red-trimmed roadhouse.  Opening his glove-box, Rand took out the two percussion revolvers and shoved them under his trench coat, one on either side, pulling up the belt to hold them in place.  As he went into the roadhouse, he felt like Damon Runyon’s Twelve-Gun Tweeney.  He found Ritter in the last booth, engaged in finishing a bottle of beer.  Rand ordered Bourbon and plain water, and Ritter ordered another beer.

“I have the stuff Tip left with Kathie,” Ritter said, taking out a couple of closely typed sheets and handing them across the table.  “He said this was the whole business.”

Rand glanced over them.  Tipton had neatly and concisely summarized the provisions of Lane Fleming’s will, and had also listed all Fleming’s life insurance policies, with beneficiaries, including a partnership policy on the lives of Fleming, Dunmore, and Anton Varcek, paying each of the survivors $25,000.

“I see Gladys and Geraldine and Nelda each get a third of Fleming’s Premix stock,” Rand commented.  “But before they can have the certificates transferred to them, they have to sign over their voting-power to the board of directors.  Evidently Fleming didn’t approve of the feminine touch in business.”

“Yeah, isn’t that a dandy?” Ritter asked.  “The directors are elected by majority vote of the stockholders.  They now have the voting-power of a majority of the stock; that makes the present board self-perpetuating, and responsible only to each other.”